


Theme and Variations

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Handel's "Water Music", Inspired by Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-15
Updated: 2005-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A road well traveled, a path less traveled, and one unexplored possibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theme and Variations

**Author's Note:**

> My third crack at writing GO, and the first time I kicked up the rating.
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in the spring of 2005.)

**1.**

One can only listen to so much harpsichord and so many strings before one goes a bit mad.  That was how Crowley tried to explain it later, though Aziraphale wouldn't have it.  In the meantime, he is doing ninety-eight miles per hour through nighttime Soho.

The cassette was still playing when he pulled up in front of the bookshop.  Suite in F Major consisted mainly of cloying woodwinds.  That was enough to tip anybody over.

"So," Crowley said conversationally, killing the ignition.

Aziraphale sighed.

"I think I know what you mean about needing sleep," he said wearily.

"Of course you do," Crowley said, shooting him a surreptitious glance.  "Saving the world _does_ tend to knacker one, I'm told."

Aziraphale laughed, pushing his door open.

"Don't be ridiculous, dear boy.  We were merely instruments—"

"I've had enough of instruments for one night, thanks," Crowley muttered.  

He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was climbing out of the car with difficulty; the door kept swinging back at him.  Crowley waved his hand, and it swung fully outward.

"Oh," Aziraphale said with mild surprise when he finally succeeded in stepping up to the curb.  "Thank you very much.  I suppose…"  Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair, which was quite unlike him, and therefore a sure sign of some perplexity.  "Ah…"

Crowley glared at the steering wheel, impatiently tapping his fingers.  There was no reason he ought to get out and walk the angel to his door.  None whatsoever.  Aziraphale had his own two legs—and his own two wings, for that matter—so there was _no_ reason he ought to feel so obliged.  It hadn't even been _that_ kind of music.

"We'll keep in touch, okay?"

Aziraphale, halfway to the door, turned and blinked at him.

"Er.  _Yes_ ," he said slowly. "Of course.  What else?"

"The park," Crowley said, those blasted woodwinds trilling away in the back of his head.  "We ought to go tomorrow.  You know.  To see what water slides off of."

Aziraphale's mouth quirked, and for a moment Crowley thought he might take a step back toward the car.  And get in, and suggest that they ought to go have dinner and some more wine somewhere.  _Anywhere_.  Back at the base, for all he cared.

 _You don't_ , he told himself sternly.

 _You wish_ , warbled the woodwinds.

"Well, then," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat.  "Bright and early?"

Inwardly, Crowley winced.

"Yes," he said vaguely, and watched the angel go inside.

He didn't move for quite some time, and the viols came in late.

 

**2.**

There was something strangely calming about the Suite in D Major, Crowley decided.  He had hit fast-forward out of sheer impatience; the woodwinds had been getting on his nerves.  He turned the rear-view mirror so that it caught Aziraphale's reflection, and observed that the angel was frowning.  He probably liked woodwinds.

"You're going to miss the turn," Aziraphale said.  "Would you slow down, please?"

"No," said Crowley, and promptly missed the turn.

It took some maneuvering, but he got them sorted out again in no time at all, the only difference being that the music had got livelier and Aziraphale had grown paler.

"I think you'd better go back to the beginning," advised the angel as Crowley pulled up in front of the shop, one hand already on the door handle.  "For the drive home."

"Why should I do that?" Crowley asked, killing the ignition.  "I've already heard it."

"It's slower than this," Aziraphale said wearily.

Crowley laughed.  "So, we've saved the world, but you're still afraid of…of, what did you call it, inconvenient discorporation?"

"I've had enough of inconvenient discorporation for one night," Aziraphale said tartly.

"Oh," Crowley said, gripped by the sudden urge to smack himself.  "Right."

"Well," Aziraphale said.  He pushed the door open so hard it creaked.  "Good night."

"We'll keep in touch," Crowley said, following Aziraphale with his eyes.  "Right?"

Aziraphale paused and turned to face him, not quite to the door.  He took a few steps back toward the car, keys already in hand.

"Of course, dear boy.  Don't be a fool."

"I thought we might go to the park tomorrow morning," Crowley suggested casually.  He had to look away; the music that lingered somewhere between his ears had grown ridiculous.  Any moment, he expected the blasted woodwinds would show up again.

"That would be lovely," Aziraphale said, and he hovered strangely, as if he couldn't take a step in one direction or the other.  "Er.  Pleasant.  Jolly good.  Right."

"Right," Crowley echoed, and revved the engine again before Aziraphale got any closer. As he drove away, the harpsichord instantly began to mock him.  

 

**3.**

Crowley was sure he had heard this before, but he couldn't quite remember where.  By the time they got to Suite in D Major, he had decided it was really all right, unless that nagging corner of his mind was correct about it popping up at the after-party for Hastur's duking ceremony, or whatever the he— _whatever_ they'd bloody called it.

"I can't believe he's one of yours," Aziraphale said, staring at the cassette player.

"He was a stubborn old coot," Crowley said.  "Had quite a temper on him, as I recall."

"Couldn't understand a word he said when he was angry," Aziraphale said absently, nodding.  "I do wonder if Germany ever wanted him back."

"Too late now," Crowley said cheerfully, pulling up to the curb.  "Safe and sound."

"Less of the sound," Aziraphale said, turning to give him a wry smile.

"Yes, well, I can't much help—" Crowley thought about that for a second, rubbed his forehead in irritation, then snapped at the cassette player.  "Better?"

Aziraphale turned down the volume.  The strings were somewhat overpowering.

"If you like," he said, lifting his hand from the seat.  It hovered in midair, hesitant, before dropping into his lap, then sliding over to unbuckle his belt.  "I suppose…"

"It's been a long day," Crowley said, vaguely disappointed.  He wasn't sure why.

"No longer than most," Aziraphale said reasonably, then patted him on the shoulder.

Crowley unbuckled his belt quickly.  "I'll see you in," he muttered.

It was a curious feeling, strolling up to the bookshop with a serenade of viols in the background.  Aziraphale was patting all his pockets distractedly, mumbling something about his keys.  Crowley reached over and tapped the pocket of his overcoat.

Aziraphale stopped mid-stride, startled.  "Why, I—thank you," he said, running his fingers over the pocket with a surprised look on his face.  There they were.

"Any time," Crowley said, glancing down at his feet.  This wasn't going well.  He could feel it.  What he should have said was something clever, but those blessed viols— 

"It all turned out quite well in the end, don't you think?" Aziraphale said brightly, slotting a key into the lock.  "The world is saved, and they've all got each other.  Rather like a fairytale, isn't it?  Crowley?"

Crowley looked up, smiling faintly.  "That's one way of looking at things."

"And we're still here," Aziraphale said, suddenly quite serious.  "That counts, surely?"

"As much as anything," Crowley said indifferently, realizing that the music had faded into silence.  "I don't know much about it.  More up your alley.  Though if you're going to write this all down as an epic poem or some such, you had better not—"

"I'm a wretched poet," Aziraphale said, giving him a steady look.  "You know _that_."

"Yes, well," Crowley conceded, "comes of knowing _you_."

Several moments later, he wasn't entirely sure how a companionable hand-clasp had managed to become an embrace, and several moments beyond that, he wasn't sure at _all_ about the kiss, but Aziraphale's mouth still tasted of wine and he wanted nothing more than to say that Aziraphale had better get back in the Bentley this instant.

"You had better come inside," said the angel breathlessly, fumbling with the key.

" _Mm_ ," Crowley agreed, and pressed him up against the wall as soon as they got inside. There wasn't any music for this.  It _was_ music; it would stay.

And regarding keeping in touch, Aziraphale had finally got the point.


	2. Asylum / Tug of War

 

**Asylum**

"I suppose— _get off the road you clown_ —your people wouldn't consider— _and the scooter you rode in on!_ —giving me asylum?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing— _watch out for that pedestrian!_ "

—Good Omens, pp. 69-70 (U.S. Ace trade paperback edition)

*

"It all turned out quite well in the end, don't you think?" Aziraphale said brightly, slotting a key into the lock.  "The world is saved, and they've all got each other.  Rather like a fairytale, isn't it?  Crowley?"

Crowley looked up, smiling faintly.  "That's one way of looking at things."

"And we're still here," Aziraphale said, suddenly quite serious.  "That counts, surely?"

"As much as anything," Crowley said indifferently, realizing that the music had faded into silence.  "I don't know much about it.  More up your alley.  Though if you're going to write this all down as an epic poem or some such, you had better not—"

"I'm a wretched poet," Aziraphale said, giving him a steady look.  "You know _that_."

"Yes, well," Crowley conceded, "comes of knowing _you_."

Several moments later, he wasn't entirely sure how a companionable hand-clasp had managed to become an embrace, and several moments beyond that, he wasn't sure at _all_ about the kiss, but Aziraphale's mouth still tasted of wine and he wanted nothing more than to say that Aziraphale had better get back in the Bentley this instant.

"You had better come inside," said the angel breathlessly, fumbling with the key.

" _Mm_ ," Crowley agreed, and pressed him up against the wall as soon as they got inside. There wasn't any music for this.  It _was_ music; it would stay.

And regarding keeping in touch, Aziraphale had finally got the point.

— _ **[Theme and Variations](http://irisbleufic.livejournal.com/68972.html)**_

*        *        *

It was, Aziraphale decided, an improvement over standing outside.  Or would have decided, if he were capable of linear thought.  Suddenly, the whole concept of passion didn't seem so inscrutably human anymore; ineffability covered more than he had hoped. It was frightening, and it had him pinned between a wall and Crowley.

Aziraphale had been kissed before, or at least he felt as if he had.  Sometimes, he found it difficult to remember.  On occasion, he had found it necessary to admit to himself that things he had _witnessed_ did not count as memories.  This was one of those times.  One could only watch so much before one began to want.  And he _wanted_. He wanted who was in his arms and soundlessly speaking his name.

His _Name_.

Crowley pulled back as if he'd been burned.  He breathed heavily—imagine it, _breathed_ , had Aziraphale never noticed what it was to breathe?—and slid one trembling hand from Aziraphale's shoulder to his elbow.  Crowley opened his mouth, eyes behind his glasses darting for the door.  He fisted both hands, agitated.

"Was it that _bad_?" Aziraphale managed, terrified, instantly regretting it.

Crowley's features hardened, and Aziraphale could hear the subtle grind of teeth as his jaw tightened.  Unexpectedly, he removed the glasses and slammed them down on the counter.  In the darkened shop, Crowley's eyes were unnaturally bright.

"No, if that's all you're concerned about," he said, voice heavy with the same familiar bitterness that never seemed to leave him.  Aziraphale had always wondered at it.

"It's not," Aziraphale said, instinctively reaching for him.  "It wasn't—er, I meant—"

"You don't know what you meant," Crowley asked. "But if you did, please enlighten me.  It's been a bloody long night, and I'm tired.  If this isn't going anywhere important, I'd rather you let me know before the inconvenience escalates."

Aziraphale blinked.  It was, quite possibly, the most sensible thing Crowley had said in a long time.  Ages, probably.  Maybe even forever.  It wasn't as if they'd had any lack.

"You flinched," he said weakly.  For the first time, all he could do was tell the truth.

"You did something," Crowley said, straightening his jacket.  "I don't know what, but you're complicating things by taking this to some level that I'm _sure_ He didn't inten—"

"That's ridiculous," Aziraphale said, heart gratuitously pounding.  "I had assumed this was all cleared up.  Everything's back to normal, nothing's going to happen, and we're stuck here as usual minding our own business.  What more could you—"

"Far more," Crowley said softly, his look pained enough to break.  "Far, _far_ more." 

For the first time, Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat.  " _I'm_ complicating things?"

"Yes!" Crowley said, doubling over in a sort of frustrated convulsion.  "You _stupid_ —for G—I just— _argh_.  Lead balloons.  Good night."  He started for the door.

Catching his arm in time was, of course, like moving in slow motion.

Like saying his Name.

The moment went to pieces after that, mostly because Crowley stopped too quickly, his composure gone, which resulted in a spectacular, breath-killing collision.  To Aziraphale's dismay, it _hurt_.  Crowley held onto him, dragging them both to the floor.

" _Ugh_ ," he groaned.  Crowley's vocabulary would have him yet.

"That would be correct," said the demon, giving him a shove.  "Get off me."

Aziraphale rolled over, wincing at the dust that got on his overcoat. 

"Now, if you're going to keep that up, I suggest you give me fair warning," Crowley said coldly.  He was sitting now, knees drawn up, arms folded.  If it was possible for him to look any more Lost than he already was, that was exactly how he looked.

"You didn't warn _me_ ," Aziraphale said pointedly, struggling to brush the dust away and get up at the same time.  It wasn't working.  So much for the new coat.

Crowley glowered up at him, rolling his eyes.  "It was an _accident_ , all right?"

"My dear, if there's one thing you'll always be, it's a terrible liar," Aziraphale said, giving up on the dust and offering his hand.  "I'll only ask this once," he said soberly.

Crowley stared pensively at his hand, then up at Aziraphale.  "You're serious."

"As serious as I have ever been."

"You're serious."

"You're repeating yourself," Aziraphale said patiently.

Crowley took his hand, and it seemed that the weight of the world lifted.

"It might be bad," he said, and for the first time, Aziraphale noticed the smudges of ash on his face.  It was all through his hair, too, and on his fine clothes.

"Nothing could be worse than the alternative," Aziraphale said, brushing away the ashes with his thumbs before framing Crowley's face with both hands.  He looked anything but familiar, but he was all that Aziraphale had ever cared to see.

"No," Crowley agreed, laughing nervously.  His hands hovered somewhere at Aziraphale's hips, startled birds.  He didn't know what to do with them.

Aziraphale reached down and settled one firmly, then stroked up to his shoulder and back to his cheek.  If not for this, what _were_ memories good for?

In a human, the widening of Crowley's eyes might have meant tears.  What it meant here was disbelief, and with it, another Naming.  An asking—and a _claiming_.

"You had better come upstairs," Aziraphale said gently, and kissed him.

"You don't know what you're asking," Crowley sighed, and let himself be led.

It wasn't true. Aziraphale knew a lot of things.  He went over them in his head as they walked upstairs, lacing Crowley's fingers with his own.  He knew that his interference in Lower Tadfield probably counted as some form of unpardonable treason, and that, under normal circumstances, he would have been stricken from existence.

He also knew it hadn't happened, and that Crowley hadn't gone to ashes with him.

It was with contentment, then, rather than with dread, that he led Crowley past the small sitting room (the television was black and white and had horrified Crowley on a number of occasions) and flipped the hall light switch.  He rarely came this way.

"I hate your decorating," Crowley said, grimacing the whole way into the bedroom.

"Then fix it," Aziraphale said, loosening his necktie. 

It was worth seeing Crowley fidget.

"What if it's part of ineffability?" asked the demon sarcastically, but his expression said quite something else—that Aziraphale had better not stop at his shirt buttons, either.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and shrugged his coat off.  The floor could have it.

"Er," Crowley said, closing the space between them.  Up close, his eyes were blinding, and his breath on Aziraphale's cheek was uneven.  "You missed…"  His hands fumbled between them, finding the last few buttons.  His fingers—warm, how could that _be_?—found Aziraphale's skin, and he set both palms against it with a sigh.

"Don't move," Aziraphale whispered, and pulled him up close.  "Now, if you think I don't know…"  He winced, apprehensive, and the rest of his clothes vanished.

Crowley's chest heaved once, twice, and the strange feeling of the fabric against Aziraphale's chest dissolved to the stranger sensation of heated skin.

"Oh," Crowley whispered, and started to say something else, but it was lost to a moan and a fierce, demanding kiss.  His hands were everywhere, not so uncertain anymore.

Somewhere between finding a handful of soft, ash-strewn hair and a handful of warm flesh—almost funny, the way Crowley gasped, then sighed when Aziraphale smoothed the touch down the back of his thigh—Aziraphale suggested that there was a perfectly functional mattress just across the room and that it might be glad of some use.

Crowley laughed, which, Aziraphale realized with dismay, was _rare_.

"I meant what I said," he babbled, crawling hesitantly under the covers.  "It's not like I've made a habit of following this through on temptations that call for it, and I'm sure that you've put an end to enough love affairs to know—don't _look_ at me like that—the way things are when people get all in a snit, and you would think—"

"I would think," Aziraphale said, running a hand down the center of Crowley's chest (he could see clearly even in the dark), "that it shouldn't matter."

"Er," Crowley said distractedly, following the progress of Aziraphale's hand.  "I guess—oh, _G_ —bloody— _oh_ , that's fine.  Easy on the—yes.  _Yesss_."

The sight of Crowley aroused was one thing, but touching him was another.

Aziraphale squeezed cautiously, and he hissed, eyes slitting shut— _beautiful_ , he thought.  He hesitantly let go, stroking down to Crowley's hip. He wanted.  _Ached_.

"Feels better," Crowley said, reaching over, "if you—"

Aziraphale fell back, breath crowding in his chest.  He hadn't intended for Crowley to do all the work; Crowley had clearly had a worse day of it than he had.  But the demon's hand on him erased  what guilt he might have felt, shaping it into desire.  He grasped Crowley's hand and drew it up to his mouth, eyes closed, trembling.

The mattress shifted, and warmth loomed over him. 

"That's counterproductive," Crowley informed him, but it didn't come off as nonchalant as he was trying for.  Mostly it was just breathy and desperate, and his fingers were shaking, too, stubs of nails grazing Aziraphale's lips.  "Look, I _told_ you this wasn't anything to crow about. From what I've seen, it's really—"

"Come here," Aziraphale said, tugging on Crowley so he hadn't much choice.

Crowley moved like what he was.  He'd never been a burden, not in all the times that they'd fought, not in all the times that Aziraphale had carried him, and that had been a few.  Aziraphale pressed a hand to the small of Crowley's back, easing him down.

Crowley stretched with a low groan, face buried in Aziraphale's neck.  He bit briefly, softly, then shivered, clasping Aziraphale's shoulders.  "You're efficient," he said.

Aziraphale shifted, finding that this was unnervingly comfortable, and that, even if this weren't going somewhere, he would have considered keeping Crowley for a blanket. 

"My dear, I do try," he sighed.  It was bothersome, too, in a way that made him blush.  Crowley wouldn't keep still, all lithe skin and slender limbs, and from the sound of things, he enjoyed this unaccustomed hardness very, _very_ much.

" _Mm_ ," Crowley said, and kissed him, and Aziraphale's mind went blank.

In the end, Crowley couldn't maintain his grace for long, and Aziraphale had no illusions about having any to speak of.  It was all he could do to shift between gasps and groans so that Crowley could settle close between his thighs, or to hitch a leg over Crowley's to keep his weight from shifting anywhere but _there_ —

For a few confused seconds, Aziraphale held Crowley and murmured to him that it was fine, oh, it was _fine_ , he oughtn't worry about the mess, really.  " _Shhh_ ," he whispered, drifting back from whatever ledge he'd been approaching, rubbing Crowley's back.

Crowley's heart triphammered for a while, and his fingers curled into Aziraphale's hair with the faintest breath of his Name.  It was more than enough to bring the edge rushing up to meet him, and Aziraphale wouldn't have wanted warning.

Crowley kissed him on the mouth, trembling as if this, too, were his.

Afterward, when he could find himself again, and perhaps gather enough sense to give Crowley a bit of a nudge or suggest that they ought to at least _consider_ cleaning up, Aziraphale stared at the ceiling.  It was deafeningly, mercifully silent.

Crowley stirred from his dozing and tucked his head under Aziraphale's chin.

"Really, my dear, you've _earned_ a good sleep," Aziraphale said, surprised to find his voice in working order.  "I don't mind."

"Insufferably mundane," Crowley muttered, but he said it right against Aziraphale's skin, lingering over each word longer than was necessary.  "Till the bitter end."

"Except it isn't the end, and nobody's bitter," Aziraphale said.  "I should hope."

Crowley went still, but his fingers clenched restlessly.

"About what I said before," he began.

"About it being bad?  I don't think—"

"No, you idiot.  About…"

He made a gesture against the pillow that Aziraphale couldn't see.

"That's not especially helpful," Aziraphale sighed. 

Crowley just tucked in closer, almost shivering.

"Would your—well, you know, just in case—if They—"  Crowley cut himself off, frustrated.  What he said next was so soft that Aziraphale almost missed it. 

"Can I stay?"

"I would be most distressed if you ever _left_ ," Aziraphale said, shocked.

"Don't get funny with me," Crowley hissed.  "I already did.  Once."

"Honestly," Aziraphale said, "I don't think anyone is counting."

Crowley grumbled something, but his breathing was finally even.

Content, Aziraphale closed his eyes and felt him sleep.

 

 

**Tug of War**

Crowley woke up feeling comfortable, which usually meant one of two things: that he had actually bothered to drag himself to bed, or that he had been fortunate enough to pass out on the sofa and the angel had been considerate enough to fetch him a pillow.  As consciousness dawned on him, Crowley sensed a problem.

It couldn't be either one of those things, largely because _his_ sheets didn't smell like cedar, and he wasn't in the habit of letting Aziraphale share his crash-space.  Even half awake, he could smell the angel as distinctly as he could smell the pillowcase, warm clean skin and the faintest trace of tobacco.  Also, he seemed to be naked.

These details, when added up, made for a problematic picture.

Crowley yawned and stretched, unable to do anything else.  His limbs were quite melted, and wherever he was, it was _warm_ , and nobody with even a trace of snake in him would give that up without serious consideration.  It was, Crowley had found, a marvelous excuse for any number of inconvenient incidents involving bodily contact.

In this case, as wrapped up as he was in a pair of familiar arms and pressed to a familiar body as naked as his own, he sensed that the excuse just wasn't going to work unless he made an effort at being very, _very_ convincing.

"Fuck," Crowley muttered, and tried to roll away.

Aziraphale sighed, put-upon as usual, but it felt nice when his breath ghosted over Crowley's shoulder and against his cheek.  Everything about the angel was warm.

"I had hoped you wouldn't notice," he said, as if he had been expecting resistance.

"I had hoped you'd have at least started breakfast," Crowley muttered, yawning.

"I didn't want to wake you," Aziraphale murmured, stroking Crowley's hair.

"You've accomplished that."  Crowley lifted his head and found himself looking straight into Aziraphale's eyes, which were greyish and fond, entirely too languid for the situation that they had on their hands.  Didn't he realize he was supposed to panic?

Much to his continued horror, Aziraphale's fingers combed down to the nape of his neck and drew him in for a slow, not-at-all-panicked kiss.  It was disturbingly enjoyable, and Crowley's body shifted into it, re-acquainting itself with everything soft and warm and pleasant—and, occasionally, hard—about the body underneath him.

"You did that on purpose," he mumbled, and gave Aziraphale what he had coming, because the angel was a bastard about that sort of thing, and Crowley wasn't about to be outdone.  Aziraphale, ever the insufferably good sport, didn't seem to care at all.

"You're making this," Crowley said between kisses, "a lot harder than it needs to be.  I could have walked out of here by now, and in a couple hours you would've been back at your books, oblivious to the fact that any of this business ever happened."

Aziraphale wasn't having any of it.

"It wasn't _bad_ ," he said softly, cupping Crowley's cheek with those plump, horribly clever fingers of his.  Crowley's body was remembering things he didn't want it to remember, but Aziraphale seemed bent on reminding him without even _trying_.

"It was quite lovely, in fact. You get the most intent look on your face when—"

"This conversation is ending," Crowley said, shoving away from Aziraphale with all of his strength, "right—now."  Aziraphale's arms, while no longer wrapped around him, just sort of slid aimlessly down to one side or the other, one hand resting on his hip.

"I believe you _asked_ me if you could stay here," Aziraphale said softly, fingers curving gently, superbly manicured nails biting a firm line into Crowley's skin.  "And I also believe that I had the good grace to assent."

"I'm not sure you could've refused," Crowley said sarcastically, taking hold of Aziraphale's hand.  What he wanted to do was move it around a bit, show it where it was needed the most.  Crowley shivered, and then gave it a squeeze.  "What I meant was, can I stay _with you_ , not spend every bloody night for the rest of my miserable existence in this moth-eaten bed.  Surely you don’t think I _like_ it here?"

"Of course not," Aziraphale said, sounding entirely too relieved.  "You said just yesterday that you…were not fond of my decorating, after all."

"Nobody uses cedar chests these days, angel," Crowley said, settling back into the pillow against his better judgment.  "Your sheets smell like they belong in a museum."

"And I _told_ you, I do try," Aziraphale said miserably, and actually turned his back, rolling over to sulk stuffily in his own pillow. 

Oh, for the _love_ of heav—and that was exactly Crowley's problem, wasn't it?  Utterly ridiculous, totally unfair, and _wonderful_.  The realization made him shiver.

"We'll get you some new ones," Crowley said, scooting up behind him, "if you like, though I promise you that I'm an impatient shopper.  If you spend more than five seconds on any one pattern, out it goes, because that's a surefire sign you hate it."

Aziraphale had hold of Crowley's hand already, drawing it down to rest over his belly, which was soft and comfortable and made Crowley blush all over.  He was drowning in a dizzy spiral of heat from head to toe, and he could only squirm closer, _closer_ , until he was nestled up all along Aziraphale's back, and had to slip one leg down and over the angel's hip, or it just wouldn't have worked otherwise.

"What if I don't?" Aziraphale asked, patiently stroking the back of Crowley's hand.

Crowley's ears rang, unable to interpret the question.

"What?"

"Hate it," Aziraphale explained.  "What if I am absolutely, positively enamored of it?"

Something in Crowley's brain went _click_ , and, realizing what he'd talked himself into, swore he wasn't going to attempt convincing anybody of anything for at least another month, because at the moment Aziraphale needed to be shown what was what in an extremely complicated fashion that involved less talk and more kissing.

"I'll think of something," he said soberly, and proved it.


End file.
